E. Delafield - The Collected Works of E. M. Delafield (Illustrated Edition)

If this is indeed fact, obviously scheme requires revision. What about "An Austrian Army"? "An Austrian Army?" says Our Vicar's Wife. Is that the League of Nations?

(Extraordinary frequency with which the unfamiliar is always labelled the League of Nations appalls me.)

I explain that it is very, very interesting example of Alliterative Poetry, and add thoughtfully: "Apt Alliteration's Artful Aid", at which Our Vicar's Wife looks astounded, and mutters something to the effect that I mustn't be too clever for the rest of the world.

Conversation temporarily checked, and I feel discouraged, and am relieved when gong rings. This, however, produces sudden spate of protests from Our Vicar's Wife, who says she really must be off, she couldn't dream of staying to lunch, and what can she have been thinking of all this time?

Entrance of Robert--whose impassive expression on being unexpectedly confronted with a guest I admire--gives fresh turn to entire situation, and we all find ourselves in dining-room quite automatically.

Conversation circles round the concert, recent arrivals at neighbouring bungalow, on whom we all say that we must call, and distressing affair in the village which has unhappily ended by Mrs. A. of Jubilee Cottages being summonsed for assault by her neighbour Mrs. H. Am whole-heartedly thrilled by this, and pump Our Vicar's Wife for details, which she gives spasmodically, but has to switch off into French, or remarks about the weather, whenever parlour-maid is in the room.

Cook omits to provide coffee--in spite of definite instructions always to do so when we have a guest--and have to do the best I can with cigarettes, although perfectly well aware that Our Vicar's Wife does not smoke, and never has smoked.

Concert appears on the tapis once more, and Robert is induced to promise that he will announce the items. Our Vicar's Wife, rather nicely, says that everyone would love it if dear little Vicky could dance for us, and I reply that she will still be away at school, and Our Vicar's Wife replies that she knows that , she only meant how nice it would be if she hadn't been away at school, and could have danced for us. Am ungrateful enough to reflect that this is as singularly pointless an observation as ever I heard.

What, asks Our Vicar's Wife, am I doing this afternoon? Why not come with her and call on the new people at the bungalow and get it over? In this cordial frame of mind we accordingly set out, and I drive Standard car, Our Vicar's Wife observing--rather unnecessarily--that it really is wonderful how that car goes on and on and on.

Conversation continues, covering much ground that has been traversed before, and only diversified by hopes from me that the bungalow inhabitants may all be out, and modification from Our Vicar's Wife to the effect that she is hoping to get them to take tickets for the concert.

Aspirations as to absence of new arrivals dashed on the instant of drawing up at their gate, as girl in cretonne overall, older woman--probably mother--with spectacles, and man in tweeds, are all gardening like mad at the top of the steps. They all raise themselves from stooping postures, and all wipe their hands on their clothes--freakish resemblance here to not very well co-ordinated revue chorus--and make polite pretence of being delighted to see us. Talk passionately about rock-gardens for some time, then are invited to come indoors, which we do, but cretonne overall and man in tweeds--turns out to be visiting uncle--sensibly remain behind and pursue their gardening activities.

We talk about the concert--two one-and-sixpenny tickets disposed of successfully--hostess reveals that she thinks sparrows have been building in one of the water-pipes, and I say Yes, they do do that, and Our Vicar's Wife backs me up, and shortly afterwards we take our leave.

On passing through village, Our Vicar's Wife says that we may just as well look in on Miss Pankerton, as she wants to speak to her about the concert. I protest, but to no avail, and we walk up Miss P.'s garden-path and hear her practising the violin indoors, and presently she puts her head out of ground-floor window and shrieks--still practising--that we are to walk straight in, which we do, upon which she throws violin rather recklessly on to the sofa--which is already piled with books, music, newspapers, appliances for raffia-work, garden-hat, hammer, chisel, sample tin of biscuits, and several baskets--and shakes us by both hands. She also tells me that she sees I have taken her advice, and released a good many of my inhibitions in that book of mine. Should like to deny violently having ever taken any advice of Miss P.'s at all, or even noticed that she'd given it, but she goes on to say that I ought to pay more attention to Style--and I diverge into wondering inwardly whether she means prose, or clothes.

(If the latter, this is incredible audacity, as Miss P.'s own costume--on broiling summer's day--consists of brick-red cloth dress, peppered with glass knobs, and surmounted by abominable little brick-red three-tiered cape, closely fastened under her chin.)

Our Vicar's Wife again launches out into the concert--has Miss P. an encore ready? Yes, she has. Two, if necessary. She supposes genially that I am giving a reading of some little thing of my own--I reply curtly that I am not, and shouldn't dream of such a thing--and Our Vicar's Wife, definitely tactful, interrupts by saying that She Hears Miss P. is off to London directly the concert is over. If this is really so, and it isn't giving her any trouble, could she and would she just look in at Harrods', where they are having a sale, and find out what about tinned apricots? Any reduction on a quantity, and how about carriage? And while she's in that neighbourhood--but not if it puts her out in any way--could she just look in at that little shop in the Fulham Road--the name has escaped Our Vicar's 'Wife for the moment--but it's really quite unmistakable--where they sell bicycle-parts? Our Vicar has lost a nut, quite a small nut, but rather vital, and it simply can't be replaced. Fulham Road the last hope.

Miss P.--I think courageously--undertakes it all, and writes down her London address, and Our Vicar's Wife writes down everything she can remember about Our Vicar's quite small nut, and adds on the same piece of paper the word "haddock".

But this, she adds, is only if Miss P. really has got time, and doesn't mind bringing it down with her, as otherwise it won't be fresh, only it does make a change and is so very difficult to get down here unless one is a regular customer.

At this point I intervene, and firmly suggest driving Our Vicar's Wife home, as feel certain that, if I don't, she will ask Miss P. to bring her a live crocodile from the Zoo, or something equally difficult of achievement.

We separate, with light-hearted anticipations of meeting again at the concert.

July 10th. --Concert permeates the entire day, and I spend at least an hour looking through A Thousand and One Gems and The Drawing-room Reciter in order to discover something that I once knew and can recapture without too much difficulty. Finally decide on narrative poem about Dick Turpin, unearthed in Drawing-room Reciter , and popular in far-away schooldays. Walk about the house with book in my hand most of the morning, and ask Robert to Hear Me after lunch, which he does, and only has to prompt three times. He handsomely offers to Hear Me again after tea, and to prompt if necessary during performance, and I feel that difficulty has been overcome.

Everything subject to interruption: small children arrive to ask if I can possibly lend them Anything Chinese, and am able to produce two paper fans--obviously made in Birmingham--one cotton kimono--eight-and-eleven at Messrs. Frippy and Coleman's--and large nautilus shell, always said to have been picked up by remote naval ancestor on the shore at Hawaii.